Power the Dark Lord Knows Not
by craftysquib
Summary: Having been kidnapped and held for two months at the hands of Death Eaters at the end of 5th year, Harry must reconcile his own personal strife and the state of his magic. Includes SSxHP slash.
1. Chapter 1 Family Resemblances

**A/N:  
**  
**Disclaimer:The Harry Potter everything is JK Rowling's. I own none of the characters and lay claim to none of the original story lines.  
**  
**Some warnings: Violence, Adult Language, Sexual Situations, Spoilers, Non-con (rape), Under 18, Contains Slash Sex.**

Thanks for reading! Please give me feedback wherever you deem appropriate. Enjoy.

Chapters 1-8 written but undergoing editing and revision. I'll post as later chapters reach completion. 

* * *

If pain were in colours, it would have been beyond any spectrum. It would have been white. He bent forward as far as his body would go, curving his spine with the strain. Unseen chains tightened his chest-an unexplained force that kept his breathing shallow. It felt as though something was taught around something that was not his lungs, something deeper. All the same, he struggled to breathe through the constriction. He thought he might combust—implode with the agony. His breathing was erratic, overwhelming; his chest seemed to compress abruptly. Something in his ribcage splintered under the tension.

There was a loud crack, and he was gone.

* * *

Draco Malfoy lounged lazily in an arm chair, leafing noncommittally through an antique book and grasping abstract concepts about ancient runes in countries he'd visited superficially when he was too young to appreciate their cultures. He was halfheartedly considering having a late lunch when a horrendous crash seemed to split his cavernous chamber.

Slamming the book shut, the blonde threw it aside and drew up his wand with firm bravado. Upon standing, he found the source of the interruption without further investigation.

There was a boy, perhaps just short of a man, curled defensively on his expensive imported tapestry. He was naked, his back presenting a perfect row of prominent vertebrae. Malfoy observed warily as the figure propped himself up, seeming to come to a sort of fogged consciousness. The boy looked around, taking in his surroundings without actually registering them. Realizing he was not alone, the figure stood as well, stumbling as he did so, lightheaded. He rose with a haunting tenseness, as though expecting pain-the way an animal might if it were wounded.

"Potter," the blonde growled with disgust. He raised his wand to draw attention to it, but finding the other unarmed, felt less inclined to carry any real conviction. His opponent contorted his face in what at first Malfoy interpreted as a sneer. Harry closed his eyes, and swayed slightly.

"Malfoy," he responded tiredly.

They both stood there for a moment, unmoving, until Harry swayed once more—violently. He seemed to catch himself in the air, righting himself and gaining some level of balance. Grey eyes studied the form more carefully, noting an interrupted expanse of cream, broken up by darker marks and bruises the colour of the boy's lips, which were also split. Scars. Several were fresh and long, likely in need of medical assistance to heal fully. He held his left arm out at an awkward angle, like a broken sparrow. Something wasn't quite right about how he breathed, shallow and pained. A single line of red flowed from his inner thigh to his ankle.

"The wards-You can't bloody apparate in here, Potter!" the blonde spat with venom. "So you don't know." Harry responded softly, closing his eyes again. The intruder's face contorted into something like surprised relief and Draco lowered his wand, baffled by this reaction. "The wards," Harry continued, "are to keep people out, not to keep them from apparating within." This statement seemed so obvious that it irritated Draco. What right had he to burst in and tell him about the purpose of wards, like a child? But his words explained nothing, could not explain where he had come from. A moment of silence passed once more between them as Draco's mind processed what Harry was implying. Suddenly, the question was not where from, but why. Why, why he would be apparating from within the Malfoy Manor?

Abruptly, Harry clutched his left hand to his chest with the other, remarking more to himself than to Draco, "Splinched." Indeed, upon closer inspection, Malfoy could see that two of his fingers were bent wrong—as though there were no knuckles to keep them in place. Bright green eyes flashed upwards, fixing themselves upon Draco who was still poised just a few feet away, watching awkwardly. It seemed as though he was only just realizing who the blonde was. "Listen," Harry began slowly, and somewhat painfully, "I know I don't have any right to ask, but I need to borrow something—" he motioned to his body, still bare and vulnerable, "anything—and I swear I'll leave." He looked down once more at himself with this statement as though to emphasize his state of dress in case it had not been apparent.

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, grappling with hatred and pity. During the school year, he would have given his own hand-joints to see Harry humiliated like this in public—Golden Boy Struts His Golden Stuff. But not like this—bleeding on his rug, trembling from the cold, and barely able to stand. Warily and very clearly reluctantly, Draco strode a few steps to a walk in closet, emerging momentarily with a robe much finer than what Harry was used to. Malfoy still felt some contempt at this last detail, but abstained from showing it as he presented the boy with his hospitality.

"I'll get it back to you with my owl." Harry replied gratefully, pulling it on quickly. Noting the claret pool forming on the carpet, he added, "After I have it cleaned." Draco snarled bitingly, "Keep it." His nostrils flared to convey disgust at the thought of wearing it again.

"Scourgify."

Potter looked down at the tapestry once more, uncomfortably stepping aside. He glanced up once more at Draco, resigning himself to the debt he now owed the ferret. "Malfoy, thank—"

"—Now get the fuck out. Go bleed somewhere else."

Harry, surprised by the blonde's abrasiveness despite himself, nodded slightly. He was about to apparate when a very high-pitched voice penetrated the door.

"Draco, dear?"

Malfoy sighed audibly, closing his eyes in frustration for only a moment before turning to respond equally clearly through the closed threshold, "Yes, Mum?"

"Dinner's been set."

Harry stood frozen, watching Draco closely. Throughout this whole interaction, it was the first time the brunette had expressed anything close to fear. Grey eyes placed their gaze briefly on the intruder before he responded, "No, Mum, I think I might just read for a bit." Turning to his visitor, Malfoy mouthed harshly, "Go. Now." He pointed at the fireplace, where a pot of floo powder hung from the side of a mantlepiece. Potter needed no more encouragement, taking a fistful of floo. Before, going, however, he turned back to face his savior-a role neither of them was fully comfortable with.

"You're less like your father than you think."

With this, he flung the powder into the fire and whispered "Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley, London." He disappeared with a roar, leaving the Malfoy heir to consider this in the fine solitude of his damned household.


	2. Chapter 2 The Smell of Terror

Warnings: Violence, Adult Language, Sexual Situations, Under 18, Contains Slash Sex  
Summary: Having been kidnapped and held for two months at the hands of Death Eaters at the end of 5th year, Harry must reconcile his own personal strife and the state of his magic.

Hey, just a head's up: I have 9 chapters written, but I'm releasing them slowly so that I have time to finish, read through, fix, and adjust chapters as I write more.  
Just note it's a WIP, albeit an active one.

Let me know if you spot issues, I'm Beta-less. Hopefully you couldn't tell.

All that stuff about not owning JK's stuff because she owns it.

* * *

Chapter 2

Harry limped from the fireplace of the inn, catching the barman's eye at once. Before waiting to be asked, the boy announced that he wanted a room and that he would be staying for at least a fortnight-perhaps longer. With a nod, Tom led him up a flight of stairs to a large room at the end of the corridor.

At the host's questions, Harry shook his head no. "I don't need anything but sleep, thank you, Tom." At this, the barman indicated comprehension and left. Harry collapsed onto the bed, turning onto his side and curled his legs up into a fetal position. Something in his chest did not settle properly as he lay down, something not quite physical: misaligned. He felt dizzy and altogether nauseated.

His broad shoulders shuddered as he breathed out, clenching his taut jawline. He struggled a moment, not wanting to breathe in; he stank like what he'd been through. He stank like Terror, and he could smell it on himself. He was afraid to shower, though, for fear that he couldn't wash it away.  
All that terror.

In the midst of his thoughts, Potter fell into a feverish sleep. His eyelashes fluttered in his state of unconsciousness, muscles tightening and loosening as his mind took him to places he never wanted to be again. Twice he called out in his sleep: once for his mother to save him, and the second time for Lily to run and let Voldemort have him.

He came to, to soft voices, hushed and worried. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that they would cease-he feared drifting back into his nightmares, but feared waking into them just as greatly. Harry's breaths were laboured and intense. He felt someone touch his face gently, and great anxiety built up within him. His consciousness frothed and the aching that he only thought he felt in his sleep became sharper, harsher, real. So real. The adrenaline and endorphins, which had carried him to this bed, had dissipated and the pain rendered him all but incapacitated. The last two months-or was it three?-had finally caught up to him, here, when he was finally allowed to rest. He had lost a lot of weight, a lot of blood. He tried to move-to pry himself from the bedspread. His position, which had only moments before been a place of relative comfort, became unbearable, unsafe.

"Oh, god. Harry-"

The voices grew louder, developing familiarity and conveying urgency, all at once. He was sure he heard Sirius, and a crooning that sounded like Hermione-or maybe Tonks? His glasses remained a good reach away on the side table-too far. It couldn't be Sirius, couldn't be. His eyes were still unfocused and he had yet to prop himself up fully to see hazily around the room. With his increased movement, the pain intensified. He cried out for just a moment before he stifled it. Someone breathed soothingly, "SSsshhh. We're here now." How embarrassing, to be found like this. To be seen like this.

An arm made its way underneath his knees, while the other supported his back, pulling him up into a sitting position. The cloak-Malfoy's cloak-slid against his raw skin, slipping with the pivoting motion that it took to sit him up. In seconds, the fabric was pulled back over him in some sick gesture of dignity, but too late. Too late.

A girl gasped, and he did his best to pull his legs together tightly, humiliated. The effort pulled against the arms that held him, which held fast, causing a jarring movement that rocked him back into the same position. This motion was abrupt and unsettling, and the pain was intolerable. "Stop, No-nughh-" A spasm of something like pain, something like physical sensation, but rather beyond it, went through his entire diaphragm, and he vomited water and bile and blood away from the arms. He dry-heaved for a moment before his body frame settled. Those arms held him steady while he shuddered.

Something was terribly wrong. This sudden onslaught of dizziness and illness were too much; he had some broken bones, surely. Perhaps some major internal bruising and a minor splinch. His disorientation and overwhelming nausea, however, seemed unrelated to the terror and daze that he would normally have experienced from waking unexpectedly. Some cognizant part of him realized this in snippets of anxious, flighty thoughts that passed like snitches among the over sensitization of what he was able to absorb around him.  
A thrumming of motion seemed to occur and the surge of concern became a clamor that his conscious state could not process. He struggled to keep his eyes open, keeping mental tabs on two figures that hovered in the doorway. There were more, surely, but he was not sure he could turn his head. Harry could make out robes, definitely. The bright blue blur atop the head of one confirmed with some certainty that it was Tonks. The other, taller, seemed to be male, with darker hair-perhaps lighter in places. Perhaps Remus? Without his glasses, though, he couldn't be sure.

Someone out of the reach of his peripheral vision pried his mouth open carefully, pouring something down his gullet. He fought, gasping and sputtering for a moment before cold, firm hands massaged his throat-loosening his esophagus and his will for protest.

"Come now, Potter," a drawling reproach met his ears, before he leaned limply against the shoulders that supported him, still pressed against his back. More hands, larger and with a more broad palm, ran across his shoulder blades and upper arms in what was obviously meant to be a soothing manner. However, the foreign contact made him irrationally uncomfortable and he recoiled ineffectively, trapped.

The potion bubbled deep and low, pressing against his insides with animosity. Surely that was not their intent; something must be wrong, here. He squirmed with discomfort, unable to keep from uttering groans of distress. Still, he knew he had to say something to defend himself. His ability to focus drifted away, despite everything in him that screamed to stay awake. "I f-fought it," he slurred against the potion, out of ridiculous concern, even now, that they understand, "They don-don't know anythunghh." Another hush sounded from behind him before he leaned to the side and vomited a second time, the potion burning with an incompatibility that he was too ill to understand. Harry tried to listen to the buzz around him over the rushing in his ears.

"Is it panic?"

"No, it has to be a reaction to the potion, but I cannot say..."

Suddenly, one of the figures-taller than the others-bellowed, "Remus, Nymphadora, please wait for us outside." The voice was unmistakably Dumbledore's, but the gravity of his words gave the boy no comfort. As soon as the door clicked closed, the great wizard raised his wand and uttered unceremoniously, "_Assidere._"

Harry registered a strange green glow that the white surfaces of the room reflected briefly before his body abruptly convulsed and he curled inwards, balling up his fists. It felt like every bone was breaking at once, as though a great force had boiled his blood and bent his spine in two. The little vision he was afforded was robbed instantly as he squeezed his eyes shut against the agony. An explosive scream erupted within the room, raw and desperate, lasting several long eternities folded neatly into terrible minutes. He wanted the sound to cease, wanted to smash whatever was emitting it, until he realized with a garish, splintering epiphany that it was he. The room became dim once more. There was one awful, horror-stricken gasp from one of the figures left in the room, and it was over.

"Albus, I've never..."

The pain receded slowly from him and he shuddered, body still tense, muscles unable to relax fully. He was unwilling or perhaps unable to open his eyes. The Boy Who Lived strained to remain awake through several convulsions that struck him like aftershocks.

The effort, though, proved to be too much and he lost consciousness altogether.


	3. Chapter 3 Things Left Behind

Chapter 3

He awoke once in a blaze of white sterility, the sheets pristine and rough on his bare legs, chest spared by the green-patterned gown that he found vaguely uncomfortable. Gazing up, he saw that he was moving, the fluorescent lights above zooming past like extraordinarily close shooting stars. He said as much, laughing brazenly. Molly Weasley, to his left, kept pace with his moving bed, her hand hovering lightly over his. She was smiling sadly at his commentary. He closed his lids against the brightness of it all, enjoying the dizzying movement of his bed. Moments later he felt a pinch in his forearm and found that he could not open his eyes against the oncoming blackness.

The next few days were a blur of half-conscious, painful moments, in which he would awake for whole minutes before he was sedated. These became dreamlike and were quickly forgotten. Once he was aware of warmth up to his chest, finding himself slumped against the cool edge of a bath tub, one bulky, bandaged arm held above the water. Someone was sponging him with great care, dipping the sponge in the opaque bubbles periodically. Another time someone was padding down his forehead as he cried out, his wrist held out by a firm hand as someone cooed, "sshhh, it's setting, Harry." 

* * *

When he finally came to, he was sitting up in bed, smelling clean and aware only from the window to the right of the bed that it was evening. He blinked a couple of times wearily, stiffly adjusting his shoulders. He made to get up, but abruptly decided against it when a sharp pain struck at his side, spreading along his ribs. It was as though some essential part was cracked and, like a butterfly's wings, was fluttering, unable to settle.

"Sit back, Potter," a cold voice came from his direct right, startling him effectively. In one glance, Harry ascertained what he already knew: Snape sat beside him, his sunless skin illuminated by the enchanted not-quite kerosene lamp at his bedside table. Doing what he was told, Harry leaned back down, allowing the pillows to take the edge off of the throb still running through to his ribs.

"I'm going to need to place this salve on your back," he began, not without pause. "Please turn."

Harry blanched, uncomfortable and embarrassed by this request. He began to argue, "N-no, it's fine. I can-"

"-Potter."

His response was biting and gave a heavy sense of disregard to Harry's protests.

"Why can't someone else do it? I thought I heard Hermione. Can't she-"

"Potter, no one else is at your needy disposal. Do not make me ask you again."

He was too tired, too drained to fight. Though he had slept for days, he felt as though it had only been minutes. Harry leaned forward, stifling back a gasp at the intensity of the pain that struck through him. He rotated, moving his legs to one side, noting with further embarrassment that, apart from the wrappings around his ribs and over one shoulder, he was shirtless. He then turned, gritting his teeth, and tried not to think about how humiliating this was.

Snape's fingers were very cold, just as Harry expected. Removing the bandaging adeptly, he allowed three long gashes to hit open air. They were stitched closed in what he regarded to be a tribal, muggle fashion-a measure that made even the Severus shudder. After applying several cotton swabs of alcohol without warning, forcing a long, clenching hiss to erupt from the boy before him, he began to apply a topical anesthesia, mixed with a natural muscle relaxant on both the gashes and the surrounding muscle. His long, dextrous digits worked the salve in delicately. However, Harry cringed at the touch, hating even this small intrusion-a sentiment that left him inexplicably nauseated.

As he worked, Severus broached warily, "While Albus remains concerned about your sensitive nature, Potter, it is imperative for the sake of the Order and myself that you tell us precisely what information you have given to the Death-eaters."

Harry's eyes snapped open and his back stiffened noticeably, shrugging off Snape's hands, which he withdrew immediately. Speaking slowly, as though gathering his words as he went, Harry snapped,"I didn't tell them anything. They have nothing." At this Severus grew displeased, drawling with more edge than usual, "Potter, I'm sure I don't have to impress upon you the severity of the situation. Lucius can be quite-" the professor paused, his expression darkening, "persuasive." He took a rag from the bedside table, wiping the excess substrate off of his own hands in a manner that was too calm; too matter-of-fact.

Harry flinched at the name, hackles rising. He struggled to keep his voice calm and consistent as he turned to look at his professor, "Frankly, Snape, it's none of your business, but your precious ass is safe, I assure you."

At this, Severus stood up abruptly so that he was above the brunette and every bit as domineering as he was in the dungeons.

"Language, Potter. It's more of my business than you can ever know. Just like your Father, to lie, to place pride over-"

The boy became rapidly livid, resembling more of an animal than the Gryffindor Golden Boy, cornered and wild. Something in him, so tired and hurt and traumatized, slithered with a rage that had no victim-no real conduit. This thing was cruel and sharp-edged and he met it now as it rose to his throat. He couldn't stand, could barely turn to face the professor to spit, "-At least my father had more pride than to go crawling to Voldemort, Snivellus."

He had gone too far; he knew it as soon as he spoke. Harry bit his lip with regret, knowing that if his professor knew what he could not express, he would not have pushed so hard. Snape, to his part, did not respond immediately. A master at controlling his outward expressions, his facial features betrayed nothing but the initial loathing that was already obvious between them. Finally, Severus drew his wand in one quick, graceful movement, pointing it at the Savior of the Wizarding World. Harry closed his eyes against what he knew was coming. Snape sneered,"Legiti-"

"-NO!"

It was the way he said it, the desperation in his voice. There was an edge of something else, too. Something weary, as though this breach, after so much else, would be too much to bear.

"They have nothing."Harry repeated slowly as he glanced up, after an excruciatingly long pause. It silenced the man for more reasons than one. This last remaining Potter was the splitting image of his father, with disheveled black hair and strong jaw line. The way he held his shoulders back and the manner with which he maintained eye contact as though he had nothing to prove-every arrogant, self-assured thing that he had hated about James Potter. But here, skinny and sharp-boned, he was different. Perhaps changed by circumstance, or perceived differently by Severus himself. Looking again, the older man realized that the frame of Harry's shoulders was set not in arrogance, but a humility that only trauma could teach. The student's eyes were awash with resolution that was so impossibly green.  
He had never looked more like Lily.  
Severus lowered his wand, pocketing it as subtly as possible. He was partially ashamed at his own selfishness; he had almost forgotten himself and done the unthinkable to a student out of malice. They sat in silence for a moment longer, swallowing time without consequence. Finally, Harry spoke, his voice a little bit raw, "How long?"

"Nearly a month and a half. It is August seventeenth."

The boy swallowed, processing this information. Unable to hold back, he sighed a laugh, bitter and unlike himself.  
"God, it felt like longer."  
Severus, understanding this sentiment for himself, nodded briefly. Not knowing what else to say, he added, "You've been asleep for approximately two days."

Harry shook his head, confused. "Why do I still feel, er-How am I not...? I should be..."

"Eloquent as ever," Snape snarled with slightly less venom than what came most naturally. Harry, who had been inspecting his hands, and then the wall before him, finally looked up at Severus and spoke with resignation that neither of them recognized, "I'm sorry, I was out of line-"

"-There are no more lines, Potter."

He nodded once at this, keeping his gaze at his fingers. He noticed with shock that his left forearm was in a red and gold cast, the kind that Piers Polkiss once had when he broke his arm falling off of a fence in a mad attempt to escape a badly botched break-in-and-entering. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a minute to reorganize his frazzled thoughts.

"Aren't there potions for this, Professor?" He asked the potion's master, not without a hint of sass.

To his credit, Severus did not skip more than a beat. Although he had not expected Harry to make this connection immediately (or, really, at all), he knew that an explanation would have to be given eventually. In fact, he had rather hoped that Dumbledore-who was, at least, more patient with the boy's ineptitude-would be there to deliver the news.

"At this moment in time, potion use would be counterproductive, if not detrimental. Ah-"

He had difficulty forming the words, abruptly. Honestly, so many years serving the Dark Lord, spouting lies at the drop of a hat. And here he was, unable to smoothly explain a fairly basic concept to a Gryffindor. He tried again.

"Surely you must have felt the change, even in your brief consciousness, during the escape."

"I-the change...?"

Sighing heavily, the professor righted the chair that had been knocked over in the intensity of Harry's outburst, bringing it beneath him in one movement as he sat beside Harry's bed. Wringing his hands and adjusting his robes, as though he was not sure what to do with them, he began again.

"Wandless magic is very powerful, as I'm sure you know. Small children, before they develop and channel their potential, let it out in minuscule bursts; it's a natural phenomenon. As wizards mature, this response to magical development becomes fairly unnecessary and these occurrences become less frequent in interval, reserved only as an emergency response when the body perceives itself to be in danger."

Snape paused for a long moment, waiting for Harry to give him the signal that he was following, or even understanding. Potter was waiting for the questions they both knew he would answer: why didn't mine respond? Where was my wandless magic? After a long silence, he continued.

"Lucius is very aware of these responses, and being a pureblood with a long lineage of brilliant, if inbred, Wizards, he has access to magic that has long been banned & forgotten."

He had the Gryffindor's attention now. His green eyes were unwavering in their steady focus.

"You will redevelop your magic. It is not forever lost."

"My... Magic."

The panic was clear in his voice, now. Harry clenched his jaw, too aware of his uneven breathing and the way his body swayed terribly with each lungful of air. Something awful slid into place. He brought his good hand to his chest, where something deeper than bone was misaligned, shallow and broken. Voice rough, he asked distractedly,

"What magic?"

"Pardon?"

"L-Lucius. What magic does he have access to?" The name was a gillyweed stuck in his throat, hard to swallow.

Severus sighed deeply, adjusting himself in his seat as a cat adjusts itself in discomfort at being woken.

"Noblemen interbred to maintain pureblooded offspring, causing abnormalities that one might find in pureblood canines," he sneered, "only more unpredictable. Their accidental magic was often staggered and terrible. Darker families developed means to control it."

He paused, searching Harry's face as though dubious that he was still grasping these concepts. Finding him attentive, Snape continued disdainfully, "It was delicate business and had many severe results, so this kind of magic was eventually reproved by the wizarding community, condemned to the shadows of wizarding homes."

Harry moved his legs painfully to the edge of the bed, moving to get up as though being on his feet could piece together the ambiguities of his professor's irrelevant stories. "Professor," he growled, frustrated, "I don't understand." His head pounded, now, the pain in his hand and ribs irritating him further. His side felt as though it could shatter, or maybe it already had?

"Honestly, you have the comprehensive ability of a flobberworm. Lucius suspended your magic, Potter. It's no-"

At this, Harry pushed off the bed, swaying, his face contorted with the effort and the agony that hit his chest like a physical blow. Whether from the pain or in reaction to what Snape had just said, Harry exclaimed, "Bullocks, Snape. I apparated away, didn't I? I'm fine. mmph-" He had to take a step sideways to steady himself, and the exertion it took to sustain his upward stance set in fully. Pushing past the tall figure before him, Harry staggered to the door, thrusting it open. Some part of him felt as though this was just part of the same nightmare he had left. If he could leave the room, get away from Snape and his misguided lies... He was already panting, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to go much further. His limbs were stiff and his left foot was asleep from disuse.

"Potter! Get back here, you're not-"

This was Grimmauld place, he realized, as he stepped into the hallway, realizing hazily that fresh paint had addled his initial recognition of it in that small room. Clearly Molly had been at work here. The edges of his vision began to deteriorate, and nausea set in. He reached out, letting the wall support him as he continued down the corridor, reaching the edge of the stairwell.

He vaguely heard Snape, not far behind, continue to call for him to return to bed, but the adrenaline and panic had begun to bloom.

Just as he was considering how he was going to make it down the stairs, Dumbledore came around the corner. His expression, though warm, was not one of amusement. There was no twinkle in his eye.

"Harry, my boy, I'm surprised to find you out of bed."

Harry shook his head, as though batting away these words, but the appearance of the Headmaster certainly gave him pause. "Professor..." he began, unsure of what he wanted to say. He began to hobble down the stairs, gripping the banister in a sloping movement, gathering both feet on each platform before limping down to the next. The stairwell groaned with the weight at each step.

Glancing up, he noted the good-natured expression on Albus's face, as though understanding the boy's need to be out of the bedroom and to tackle the descent on his own. Another figure, a man, came around the corner but was obscured momentarily by the tall build of the headmaster. For just a moment, Harry recognized the gait, felt a jolt in his throat at the abrupt hope he felt in his heart. Sirius stepped out from behind Dumbledore, looking up at Harry as though he had never left him. He was in fresh, un-tattered robes, looking clean and shaven. All thoughts of his magic and the nonsense Snape had been spouting left him completely. Gone was any concern for his own pain.

Harry stopped five steps from the bottom, incapable of comprehending. There was no way. Snape had caught up to him, now, and his long dextrous fingers grasped his elbow to secure the escapee in place as the boy swayed violently.

"Honestly, Potter."

Snape said more, but Harry wasn't listening. He had made eye contact with his godfather and he was terrified-sure that if he were to break it, Sirius would disappear in a fit of smoke. "Sirius," he breathed, unsure, certain that this had to be a dream.

He came forward, continuing his unsteady lurching down the stairs. Severus, exasperated, let him leave his careful hold. Harry made it down three steps before misplacing his feet and stumbling down, lunging forward into the open embrace of his godfather, who caught him without great difficulty. The boy buried his face into Sirius's shoulder, tightening his grip.

"I thought you were dead, mate. I was so sure you were dead."

Sirius laughed his bark-like laugh, "Didn't think you lot could get along without me!" Despite his mirth, he held Harry for a long time, allowing a long and fulfilled silence to pass between them. Dumbledore nodded at Severus, steering his head to the left to indicate that they should both retire to the sitting room, leaving the two to reconnect.


	4. Chapter 4 What We Lack

A/N:  
Thanks for the reviews so far, guys!  
I'd really like feedback on how the interactions come across. Otherwise, enjoy!

Chapter 4

"I daresay your conversation went worse than you'd planned, Severus?" Dumbledore broached as soon as they were out of earshot. He settled into a maroon armchair that, while worse for wear, was much better suited to the newly arranged sitting room than the gnarly, flea-ridden affairs that had previously inhabited the Black home. Molly had been at work here, too.

Snape sat to his right, onto an antiquated couch cushion, settling uncomfortably at the edge, as though sure he wouldn't be there for long. Disgruntled, he replied without patience, "Albus, I think you'd do well to deal with the brat entirely. Apart from salves, there is little I can do to heal the boy. Madame Pomfrey herself was baffled. Who is to say when he will regain what he has lost? Vulnerability at a time such as this-"

Albus held up his hand to stop Severus mid-sentence, perturbed by this turn of conversation in such an open space. "Severus, old friend, I believe there is more to be done. While your sacrifice has been invaluable to the efforts of the Order of the Phoenix, I must ask of you one further burden. You are to watch over the boy in the Fall; you have more to give than salves, yet. I'm sure I don't have to impress upon you the urgency of this situation."

"Minerva is fully capable, or Pomfrey. You cannot ask me to coddle Potter back to health, Albus. There are others with a greater capacity for comfort and understanding."

"Ah, understanding. Am I to gather that you have none to offer, here, Severus?"

Snape's face contorted into a snarl, his teeth visible as he hissed, "I respect your paternal feelings for the boy, Dumbledore, but my situation was night and day to this. I don't possess the empathy. It's too much to ask."

Dumbledore let out a long breath, rising to his feet elegantly, unruffled. Adjusting his spectacles on his nose, Albus took a long look at Severus. He sighed long and low.

"It was not so many years ago that you would have done anything for Lily's son."

Snape closed his eyes against these words, setting his shoulders back in shame and ire all at once. He rose, too, turning to the kitchen. Shifting his head to the side to look warningly back at Dumbledore, he responded tersely, "I'm sure Mrs. Weasley would be pleased to know that Potter is awake."

He slipped through the entryway without another word, his robes billowing fiercely behind him, to voice bitterly to those in the next room that Harry was finally conscious. Then, finding himself in a temper and in great discomfort, he informed Molly that he had business to attend to at Spinner's end. He would return later in the night to supply the rest of the salves and an arnica tincture that was almost ready.

Harry and Sirius hobbled into the living room, finally, joined by Remus, who had descended the steps once he heard the commotion. Much of the Order, having tea in the kitchen, flowed in to the adjacent room to find the headmaster already seated and their resident invalid just joining them from the opposite threshold. At first feeling slightly at odds due to his shirtlessness, Harry soon relaxed at the lack of concern everyone else seemed to apply to this. Several times, however, he found that eyes rested too long on the scars along his chest and he looked away, feeling vulnerable. The room erupted with noise, then. Relief and curiosity was obvious in a dozen faces, all alight with words that overshadowed one another, too much to understand. Still hazy and not altogether capable of focus, Harry squinted against the sound level, attempting to separate one phrase from another, instead picking up bits and pieces: "Whotcher! Looking a bit peaky, isn't He? -ay, Mate!"

Harry shook his head to indicate a lack of full understanding, supported still on his left by Sirius, who was handling most of his godson's weight. Harry lifted his arm to point, leaning himself in the direction of one of the sofas to indicate a desire to sit, not trusting himself to speak just yet. A brief silence stretched over the group as they watched Harry settle himself, adjusting himself so that he as fully supported by the back of the couch.

Molly teetered for a moment before breaking the silence with a nurturing confidence, "Don't suppose you'd like some tea, Harry, Dear?" His eyes dragged from the floor to her face slowly, and he stared for a moment, processing. There was an awkward moment in which she almost repeated herself to be sure he had understood her, but after a long pause, the ghost of a smile graced the corners of his lips and he nodded.

"T-That'd be great, thanks."

At this, everyone visibly relaxed. Arthur, Tonks, and Remus all sat on the sofa across, while Sirius and Bill Weasley joined Harry. Ron and Hermione and the twins, settled on the floor between the couches. Mrs. Weasley disappeared into the kitchen promptly, reappearing within minutes, wand in hand. She was followed by a steeping pot of tea, along with several half-finished cups that had been abandoned in the next room. The floated lazily through the air, finding their respective owners with a distinguished flick of Molly's wand.

No one spoke for a long moment, until Fred, taking a last swig of his tea, examined the dregs before declaring, "Looks like a nose with bumps." George leaned over and considered the tea leaves carefully before offering, "Obviously you can look forward to a warty nose, Gred. At least Mum'll tell us apart." They both gave a mischievous glance at their mother, who frowned ruefully in response.

Harry grinned, despite himself. Taking his own cup from the air, Harry studiously examined the scratched gold-plated handle with the Black family crest at the curve, pretending not to notice everyone staring at him. Finally, unable to find anything else to concentrate on, he looked up at his godfather.

"Sirius, tell me how you came back to us from beyond the veil."

Sirius gave a knowing glance at Remus and then gazed back at Harry, releasing a laugh that seemed to settle the last Potter, like a beacon of familiarity that finally spoke of home.

"To the point, then. Very well, Harry. As you know I was stunned by Bellatrix before I fell. I lost consciousness for a very long time, longer than it felt like, I'm sure. It was the place. Time was different in death than it was in life. I call it death because-" He looked once more to Lupin,"Well, Loony and I still aren't sure. We've done intensive research, of course, but if the Ministry hasn't found it..." Sirius adjusted himself in his seat.

"It was not completely reality, not another universe but one in between. I woke to whispering, and I could see only blurred figures and mist. An entire existence of shadows and fog. I panicked, tried to scream, fight-but you can't fight mist, obviously. I was alive in a place where only the dead go, sort of... I couldn't process them because I wasn't in the right state for the place I was in."

Sirius paused to gather the right words, "Much like trying to fit a galleon into a knut." Hermione peered owlishly over her teacup at him, as though mentally categorizing the magical properties of the world he described.

"But I could feel them," he stated hauntingly, his tone suddenly serious. "One of them got real close and laid a hand-a limb-touched me right here." Sirius brought his hand to his chest, punctuating his last 3 words by pounding his fist lightly at his breastbone, the sound reverberating in the dusty room of his ancestors. He brought his shirt collar down and to his left shoulder, where finger prints seemed to be burned into his skin slightly off-center, above his heart. Everyone was silent, now, and the stillness brought chills to Hermione and Ginny, despite having heard the story twice before. Harry didn't speak but studied the scar with renewed intrigue.

"And suddenly their hands-well, you know-were all over me, and their fingertips started to sink in. They weren't solid; they were still mist, but I could feel them all the same. They were surrounding me, and there were just so many. It was like another sense, everywhere, below my skin, and the pain was beyond, Harry. There are few things in this life that I would say compare to the wretchedness of the Dementors, but those fingers..."

His eyes glazed for a moment and the gaunt, pained look aged his face momentarily. Harry could believe, fleetingly, that this was the same man he had met in the Shrieking Shack all those years ago. With a nudge from Remus, however, a youthful mischief tugged at the corners of his mouth once more.

"My vision clouded and I found myself in the Peruvian rainforest." He took a swig of tea from the the cup on the table, and grinned to himself, "Well, that's not quite true. I was found by a baffled native whom I'm sure that I frightened terribly. I couldn't apparate-wasn't strong enough, yet. That's why it took so long; I had to hike to Lima, and it was a good while before I was strong enough to come home. They took something from me, used my magic to take me back. Remus and I assume their magic wasn't the sort I needed there." Sirius shrugged as though the enigma of this secondary world was no longer of great concern to him. It was a very difficult riddle he had struggled to put down and had tried to forget about.

Again, a pregnant silence passed over the group as minds fluttered genially from Sirius's joyous return to the ambiguous and somewhat sordid conditions of Harry's recent rescue. Idly sipping his tea, Harry's shoulders tensed under the impatient gaze of his friends.

Finally, Hermione stood tearfully, stepping lightly over to him and lowering herself to his side so that she could drape her arms around him without applying too much pressure to his swaying form. "Oh, Harry," she sniffed breathily into the shallow of his collarbone where it met his shoulder. Not wishing to crowd him, but wanting to join in all the same, the group watched, unsure of how to express their lament. Letting him go, Hermione settled herself beside him just as Ron, from across the table, stumbled bluntly, "S-So, Mate. What, er-you know... What happened?"

Uncomfortable at the abrupt attention and mortified at the prospect of having to relate the experience of his escape to such a large group, when he himself could barely find the words to describe it, Harry gazed at them all, doe-eyed. Dumbledore, to Harry's intense relief, interjected at this, "Pardon my interruption, for I find myself just as profoundly curious as you, Mr. Weasley. The time will come, I am sure, for Harry to speak of his misadventures this past summer." He glanced at the brunette with a knowing, but sad smile. "However, I am sure that it is not tonight. Not until he is ready. Come, let us return you to bed, Harry. What you need above all else now is rest."

It was only with Sirius's coaxing that Harry rose to his feet and made his way back up the stairs. Despite his mild protests, he returned to his room after splashing his face with water and running a toothbrush over his teeth with brevity.

Before stepping back into the bedcovers, Harry turned back to his godfather with abrupt concern.

"Sirius, Snape was saying something about my magic before he left."

He ran a hand through his messy black locks, trying to recall the rubbish that his professor had been spouting through the advanced gravity of his muscles and the ache that still throbbed in his ribs and wrist. He continued despite his exhaustion, "Something about... L-Luc-Pureblood magic. I can't..."

Shaking his head, the last remaining Black pushed Harry gently toward the mattress, telling him that it was nothing and they could discuss his questions in the morning.

"Nothing to worry about tonight."

Unconvinced, but too tired to argue, Harry settled easily into the soft blankets. The Boy Who lived settled on his stomach, the gashes on his back beginning to prickle in the open air. After a few moments, footsteps in the hallway alerted him to some activity just outside of the door and he adjusted his head to listen intently. Molly peered into the threshold, her hand on Lupin's forearm in a silent request that he remain still. Then, leaning towards his ear she spoke in a concerned undertone, "Should we let him sleep like that without dressing those awful-?" Remus cut her off with a sharp shake of his head, which Harry noted was much like the curt shake of a dog.

"I've already spoken with Dumbledore, Severus will return later tonight once he has harvested the Asphodel the salve requires. The brewing is measured hourly and it must be exact."

Molly said something else, uttering a mutter of disdain which made Harry struggle against sleep, but his sore body soon slipped into an unrestful slumber.


End file.
